Songs in the Night
by Darkaus
Summary: The Beast of the winter woods crosses paths with many as he walks the Unknown. His is a presence felt by both the great and the small. Before Gregory and Wirt arrived he had been, and long, long before that had been his time as well. This is a small collection of possible encounters.


**-((Like Old Men at a Wall))-**

Enoch had a fondness for changing his shape. He had a fondness for things that grew in neat and orderly rows in rich loamy soil. He had a fondness for the smells of the field, the cast iron kettle, and the burning incense of oak and pine from the great seasonal bonfires. He had a fondness for many things. The Harvest Lord had presided over the autumn lands of the Unknown since time before time; even he couldn't say how long he had dwelt therein. In that time he had watched his holdings grow from a fallow potters field to a sturdy village. He had generation upon generation under his care and he kept them safe, he kept them content, he kept them close. Nothing troubled the peace of his fields and townships and their golden autumns. Well, almost nothing.

For after all Enoch was not the only elder spirit that dwelt in the vast unmapable Unknown. There was another spirit to the south who kept the fields and vales of its land in an unshakable spring. He had never wandered far enough to see it for himself, why should he? His business was his own lands, maintaining the yearly harvest, keeping the autumn weather steady. But he'd heard tell of it often enough from travelers who passed through and traded fabrics with his charges. They said that it was a place of open rivers, colorful ferries, and frog folk who walked around upright as normal folk were known to do. He'd also heard that the power of that spirit was beginning to wane. Autumn had touched his rivers, winter was threatening to come up on its heels. A rare thing, but not impossible, not unthinkable. Even Gods may die.

Then of course there were the winter forests to the north. Dark, cold, desolate. In the furthest recesses of that place nothing could last, even the trees froze through and broke to pieces. The lord of that place spent his time abroad for the forests of the far north traced like veins across the Unknowns landscape. They crept down into the spring lands, passed the summer lands, and married off into tamer woodlands all about. The Harvest Lord shared a boarder with the true wood of that realm and its lesser woodlands were all about his holdings. He was no stranger to the strangeness of that forest or its dark master. No, no stranger at all.

Enoch had no fear in him of the shadows or anything in truth, but a healthy caution all the same. He did not leave his lands and the Beast of the winter woods did not enter them. Sometimes he would see the distant flicker of a light between the trunks as he floated across his fields. Sometimes he caught sight of dark branches bowing in the evening wind only to realize later that they had been antlers. Sometimes he heard distant singing, powerful and deep. And sometimes they spoke like old men at a garden wall.

Surely the Beast passed by unnoticed more often than not. When he came to the very edge of his wood and Enoch was about his rounds was it chance, or intention? Often at the sight of each other the Beast would turn and go, fading into the night as if he'd never been. Rarely he stood and watched him pass by. Rarer still he spoke. _**"Harvester,"**_ He would say, that being his title of choice for the other spirit, _**"Why so near my forest this night?"**_

" _Minding my crop."_ Was the expected reply, _"For the corn is prone to chill and my gourds to frost. Why so near my fields?"_

" _ **Minding my flock."**_ Was the common response. Though the Beast's crop would make him seem more a pruner than a shepherd he never regarded himself as such. And that was fair enough, for what pruner ever tended an orchard so far flung and prone to wanderings?

Often that was all they could spare for the spirits were like ships in the night, both bound to different harbors. They might pass in quiet intimacy but each had a course to adhere to with all steadfastness. Still, it was a nice change of pace. A small distraction from the monotony of their fates. Even if the Beast enjoyed his calling as much as Enoch did his own, which he doubted was possible, it was a repetitive lot. Enoch always felt something when he spoke to the other spirit. The thrill of the hunt perhaps? Why the Beast came he alone knew and kept his council. Enoch guessed that as a part of him savored the aftertaste of the Beast's wanderlust the Beast savored the comfort and contentment of Pottsville. But perhaps that explanation too was overly simplistic. Perhaps the Beast came for the company. Perhaps it didn't matter.

Enoch looked to the forests beyond his fields and listened for the distant echo of a thunderous song. It had been some time since he'd last heard the earthy tones of the Beast on the northern wind. He wanted to hear it again.

... ... ... **-((Turn to Me))-** ... ... ...

Jacob wasn't sure how long he'd been walking now. He'd long ago lost the only path he'd seen in the forest since arriving. Something had been behind him on the trail, something great and dark and snorting. It had chased him what he could only guess was a few leagues when he hit a stone with his boot and fell; his clumsiness revealed his foolishness. It had only been a stag. The great black beast vaulted over his toppled form and in two great bounds vanished into the wood before him. He'd cursed it, then himself in turn, then the whole blasted forest for good measure.

Now he wished it would come back. Any company would be nice.

What time was it? Why hadn't he reached the town? It had never taken him this long to get there before. Of course he'd never lost the path before either. He must still be very far away because he had yet to see the mountain pass. His mother had always fretted about the hill and its rocks that lay on his way to town. She'd told him often enough about the dangers of rock slides and to be quiet when he walked that stretch of ground. He tried to humor her, he really did, but those rocks had never moved for anyone! If he wanted to hum a little as he walked the path what harm was there in it?

He would give almost anything right now to see that hill rising above the tree line. But even if it was nearby how would he know? The trees were so thick here...

"My lodging it is on the cold ground, and oh, very hard is my fare," He sang it as he walked; it helped his unease to keep the silence at bay. "But that which troubles me most is the unkindness of my dear…" He had a soft voice, pleasant, he'd been told. It hadn't yet fallen to its final place and remained fair and lute like when he had to reach for uneasy notes. "Yet still I cry-"

" _ **Oh turn, love, prithee love turn to me. For thou art the man that I long for, and alack! What remedy?"**_

Jacob stopped dead. The shock of another voice in the empty forest froze him and the sudden relief that weakened his knees proved it wise that he had stopped. "Hello? Hello? Who's out there!" But nothing responded now, and the relief he'd felt at hearing another soul began to fade. "Please! Who's out there? Don't be afraid I won't harm you! I wouldn't harm anyone, I swear it! It's just that I've lost my way out here, somehow, and I must be getting on. Where are you sir?"

Still no reply came. It seemed not even the birds in the trees were there to keep him company now and the wind held its breath. _**"I'll crown thee with a garland of straw, and I'll marry thee with a rush ring…"**_

The voice was behind him now, deep and rich like melted butter. Jacob turned again hoping to spy the singer but still nothing greeted him. "It's cruel of you to play with a stranger this way sir! Pray you, tell me where we are? Where you are?"

Fainter now, as though further ahead the song echoed back, _**"My frozen hopes will thaw then, and merrily we will sing. O turn to me, my dear love, prithee love, turn to me…"**_ And the sound was getting fainter still, the singer walking away in the unseen shadows of the wood.

"Wait! Please wait!" Heedless of keeping track of the sun in the sky or looking for the path Jacob rushed after the retreating voice. He followed it across a stream that rose to his thighs and gave him a bitter chill. He followed it through thorn briars, for he just caught a glimpse of someone ahead of him then and nothing would be worse than being alone. When the first song was ended it started another, and Jacob knew this song as well. He must be closer to home than he thought if the stranger knew all of these familiar tunes. What a comfort that was! If he could just catch up with the man.

And that voice, he'd never heard anything quite like it. It was everything he hoped his own might be in a few summers. Once he caught the stranger and they found the path perhaps the man would be willing to talk about it? How had he learned to carry the sound that way? How could he hold a note, and move it? It hardly sounded human.

When had it gotten so dark? Jacob could scarcely see, the weak light of a slivered moon barely penetrated the cover of the branches above. The voice was closer again, the dark must be slowing the singer too and… ah! A light! Bright and crystalline clear, the beam of a lantern was dancing off the trees ahead of him as its owner walked. The stranger must have lit it. The promise of company and light, perhaps warmth and food as well, drove Jacob all the harder. He raced forward waving, calling, anything to get the others attention-

He could not see the changing terrain in the dark through the trees. He did not realize until he was just above it that a ravine lay before him. And by then it was too late. Arms waving and grabbing at the empty air Jacob plummeted down. He hit roots and rocks, bounced off the sloping dirt wall and came to rest in a heap at the bottom. The fall had almost knocked the sense from him, the pain made him wish it had. Whimpering he tried to pull his legs beneath him but only one of them responded. The other gave off such a stinging rending ache that he cried out and abandoned it completely. He could not see the damage; it must be terrible, his mind made a dozen different assumptions for him. His leg was shattered, it was gone, it was backwards, it had broken off at the knee and the rest was somewhere above him. Fear strangled his breath and he could not even whimper anymore.

He had to get help, had to. He would never make it out of this place alone. "H… Help…" He croaked, too stunned and scared and pained to take a deep enough breath to shout. "Please… someone… anyone…"

He lay there time unknown, dreading, fearing, weeping. It was cold in the ravine, he was filthy and hurt and utterly miserable. He had failed. He couldn't find the path, and he couldn't catch up to the singer, and now… now no one would ever find him.

It was strange; the ground seemed softer somehow. There were leaves though he couldn't remember them being there before. Tender threads of wood, sapling branches subtle and willowy, brushed his cheeks. He lay back into the branches, smelled something earthy and odd. Perhaps it was a vine and not a sapling at all, what could grow at the bottom of a pit like this? Footsteps. He jolted back to awareness, listened, strained with all he was to hear. Yes, definitely footsteps. The moon seemed stronger, or higher, and he could see something… some distant form making its way down the side of the ravine and casting great crawling shadows from its horns. The black stag? It alighted on the barren ground with one short bound and turned its great crowned head to him, regarded him like some druid god long since forgotten by men.

"Please…" Jacob whispered. It was his last hope, desperate and foolish. Perhaps that great beast was tame, it might have a master to bring hither, or if it would just come closer perhaps he could grab those great horns and pull himself onto its back like a child in a fairy story. "Oh please…"

The beast did not stir. It looked at him with great, white, brilliant eyes. It stood silent and watched the boy realize that he would die here. He would die, and that the only thing that might help him was a beast seemingly too dumb to understand. They looked at each other, that child and he, until the boys eyes closed for the last time. Still the stag stood, a great black silent thing, until the branches of the edelwood wound higher and the bark rose up to hide the child's face from the moon forevermore. Then and only then did the beast come into the light which, as light always will, dispelled the illusion utterly.

The Beast came across the empty ground and pulled his lantern from within the recesses of his fur robe, placed it before the sprawling new roots and a lone pale foot. _**"Yet still I cry, O turn love,"**_ His hand cupped a tender young branch and a talon pierced it to its wick. _**"Prithee love, turn to me..."**_ He bent the branch, lifted the lantern and watched the mournful oil drip into the copper casting. _**"...For thou art the man that alone art the cause of my misery."**_

... ... ... **-((Whispers in the Wood))-** ... ... ...

Whispers had seen many things in her life, strange and terrible, beautiful, and heartless. It seemed these last two were bedfellows through some sly jest of nature for they walked hand in hand all too often. For many years now she had lived alone happily enough. Her work kept her company though maintaining her home had grown harder as the seasons rolled and her bones aged. She had lost contact with her kin, her only sister, but that was a blessing in a sad dress. They'd grown apart, the vines that once wound so tightly had sought different branches. So Whispers stayed alone, kept her house, fished her food from the bog in the back and counted sunsets. She'd been happy... for a time.

Then she found her, Lorna, the poor little dear. There were few who dared live this far into the forests; winter was no stranger here. But some did. She'd known some new fools had risked it some time back. For weeks she'd heard the ringing of axes on trees as they carved out a home to her west. The voices had carried across the cold ground to her door, she knew who they were long before they realized she was there. There was a mother and two sons, the strong young men wielding those axes. And now and then she heard a softer voice that she guessed was a daughter. When the house was built she heard less of them. For a time she heard nothing at all and thought perhaps they had abandoned their home to move on. But then it burned.

The fire drew her, Whispers had never seen a blaze like that in this forest; not in years and years. The heat and the light would have been a beacon for miles around if the wood wasn't so thick and the snow so deep. Sitting with her knees to her chest with her shadow casting wildly from the leaping flames, that had been the first she'd ever seen her; the daughter, the soft voice, her little Lorna. So pale and thin. Needing someone so much. It had moved Whispers old heart. So She took her in there and then, fed her, cared for her, even encouraged visitors so that Lorna could trade for new fabrics and keep younger company.

That's how she'd learned the truth. The boy who delivered the fabrics was the first to be eaten alive, Whispers came home to find an odd pair of shoes on the rug. Next it was the man who sold the cord for her turtle nets, then a child wandering in the wood. Lorna would eat anyone who wandered by but she never seemed to recall her transgressions. What does one do with a charge who eats everyone? And what to do when the charge cannot remember it? She tried all manner of things. Memory charms, sleep spells, she even convinced the poor child that she was a table for a time. Nothing worked, nothing helped. Whatever compelled Lorna to eat had a will like iron and teeth to match.

Whispers tried to keep her darlings hands busy with housework but Lorna would stray if she so much as heard a voice in the thicket. Whispers kept everyone else away from their home instead but that only made Lorna prone to wandering the wood. They gathered the bones and kept them close. It was disrespectful to leave them lying about the forest, and what if someone should see them? She could not bare that anyone learn her Lorna was a fiend of the night. In the end she was left with a single hope, a charm requiring a totem that could compel. So Whispers bought a little silver bell and enchanted it, and bound its power to her Lorna. But the spirit was too strong for the silver and the bell melted away after the first weak ring.

It was her sense of despair that drew him, surely, bright and fresh after so many years of quiet contentment. Lorna was sleeping and Whispers was at the fire when she heard his song. It was sweet and deep as thunder, far too close, it set her old bones to shivering under her skin.

 _ **"Come rest ye weary ones beneath the shelter of the boughs...  
Find comfort in the whispers of the leaves beneath the sky...  
The peace upon the soil that rests between the roots,  
Will make for thee an earthen bed upon which ye may lye.**_

 _ **Old skins worn thin by winters past,  
May here at last be made to rest;  
And feet that many roads have trod,  
shall find themselves beneath the sod...  
To strive and struggle nevermore should they but dare to pass the door.**_

 _ **Come walk ye weary ones beneath the ceiling of the branches,  
Forsake your barren homes for calm and quiet sleep,  
There is a rest for any who accept the soils advances...  
The roots and rings your lonely bones will keep.**_

She could see his shadow preceding him and creeping uninvited beneath the crack of her door.

The Beast was at her door, just behind her door. The Beast of the winter woods had come to her lonely home and waited wolf like at her door. Whispers felt the faint ice of fear against the back of her neck but she dismissed it quickly. They had no business the Beast and she, this was a mistake. That, she thought, or a sign of terribly lean times. They both knew well that the other was in the forest but it had never prompted so much as a nod in passing. Still his shadow did not move, still he stood at her doorstep. He was waiting.

She would have to confront him. The handle was cold in her hand and the hinges frosty as she pulled the door in. She was prepared but some things one can never be fully prepared for. The eldritch specter loomed just beyond the threshold. He looked down at her as very few could, and his eyes were white, terrible, and smiling.

 _ **"Good eve Madam."**_

"Good eve Beast." Her eyes darted from his eyes to his horns, she knew better than to hold that gaze and find herself compelled into the moonlight. "It was warm for this time of year before you came to visit."

 _ **"Do you wish to walk with me Whispers?"**_

Strait to the point, she appreciated that.

 _ **"The woods are wild beneath the moon, their delights wake the senses so that they might make anyone feel young again."**_

Trickery that, but she supposed he couldn't help himself. "But Beast, you sang of rest and not rejuvenation just now, didn't you? Forgive me if I didn't quite hear. I fear my ears aren't what they once were." That was also a lie and she suspected they both knew it. But there was a way about conversations with beings such as this; the back and forth was necessary. "And I'd offer you refreshment as you made this journey but I am a poor woman with nothing to spare. Nothing fit for you surely."

 _ **"Your thought of hospitality does you service**_." The reply is smooth, lulling. _**"But I come to give, not to take from you. I would give you the open skies and the soaring pines and the music from the hundred thousand rustling leaves on the boughs."**_

"I cannot accept such generosity." She answers back, for the offer was a twisted truth but beautifully phrased.

 _ **"I cannot persuade you?"**_ He must ask. Though she is in his woods she is also in her home. She is not a child of easy guiles but a witch of old wiles. He does his best work on the lost and despairing while she has too much to do and is not lost at all.

"No, not tonight Beastie dear." She will watch him go before closing the door so she can see any trickery he might play.

But as he bends that kingly rack in a nod of acceptance she is struck with all the sudden force of revelation. As he turns she knows she cannot let him go. He could, he had... "Wait a moment Beast, I-"

 _ **"...You?"**_ He turns. They are on different ground now and he knows it, smells it. _**"You wish something of me?"**_

"I have a question, a curiosity." She picks her words. "Your antlers, I've long wondered; do you shed them?"

For a moment he stares at her, the white of his eyes wider though in anger or surprise she cannot know. _**"Do you think I am a deer?"**_ Is that shock, amusement, irritation, all three? _**"They do not fall off."**_

"And should some harm come to them will they grow back?"

He draws himself up with a terrible sound, the fur along his cloak seems to stand upon its ends. _**"You wish my antlers?"**_ It is not a question and it is both quiet and terrifying.

"Only a piece Bestie, only a single tip." It's no good lying now, she tries to make her request seem as mild as possible. "Just a piece no longer than a finger."

 _ **"That would be a kingly gift."**_ His voice is a frozen hiss like cracking ice and the blackness beneath it. _**"What could you possibly offer me in return if I were inclined to allow it?"**_

There is no easy answer for this. Whispers knows better, to the core of her being she knows better. But her poor Lorna needs something to calm her raging hunger and surely nothing can be stronger than a piece of hopes death? What a totem she could make from just a single point! What she would never do for herself she will do for her girl. She is chained by love and its shackles hold her well. She looks at the Beast, and he at her, and she wonders if he can see the bindings on her even now. "I would owe you a kingly favor Beast. Surely you can think of something?"

But he is not listening. He smells her love; it makes him curious of the source so he brushes past her into the home. She can hardly refuse when it is she begging a favor though it takes all her strength not to slam the door and stop him. He is too large, too out of place and too dangerous in the tight space. He extends his senses and just _feels_. And there, sleeping above them, he feels her. Her and what lies within her.

He grows very still, his head turns with an almost audible crack to eye the startled witch in her doorway. _**"You are fond of shadowy things are you not Whispers..?"**_

"A witch every which way." She must distract him from her poor Lorna. Wordplay, the oldest game, is her best hope. "Shadows of shadows seek me, spirits of spirits speak of me, and those that sneak from me oft never so much as peak at me."

He gives a chilly huff of air, amused, she hopes. _**"That thing dwelling above us is no simple shadow, no diffused specter spread to mist, and it knows you well. You are a fool to cohabitate with it."**_ He looks at her, head at a tilt that with some would signify pity but he has none to give. _**"Even now she devours you. Perhaps when you tire of sating her hungers you will indulge my own."**_

"Why speak of the future?" Whispers has no choice. "I'll give you a present in the present, and we can pass on what is past."

 _ **"I have agreed to nothing,"**_ He reminds her. _**"However I cannot have a lesser spirit stealing from My forest. every soul she devours is a tree that will never grow... So it seems we must make a deal, you and I."**_

"Speak on Beast." She cannot guess the price but she will pay, they both know that.

 _ **"Take my hand..."**_ He stretches it between them, a great, grasping thing black as the space behind shadows. _ **"For every soul she has stolen you shall make amends, for every soul she seizes you shall strike a day. You shall have a day for each groove in the tip you take. when your days are struck you will surrender to Me."**_

Whispers swallows. He will not specify, need not. She understands surrender. Such a surrender had claimed her sister Adelaide. If that day never came the price was already terrible, for her sweet Lorna had gobbled so many... to make amends for all of those would be a wicked, wicked thing. But she was a witch, better she be wicked than her sweet child. And she must have that totem. She took his hand.

It made a magnificent little bell once she'd carved it and the last of the oil had seeped up and out. How oddly musical it was, how deceptively gentle its ring. She could feel its power, a cold burning glow that stole the feeling from her fingers even as it soothed her worried heart. This would be enough, surely this would tame the spirit that so troubled their house and give her Lorna peace? Whispers counted the grooves carefully and swallowed back a shivering moan of dismay. She must be oh so careful, there must be no mistakes.

She should have insisted she pick the tip herself.


End file.
